Chapter Text
The first thing Seungmin saw in the mirror wasn’t himself.
It was Chan’s shoulders—broad and solid, tank top clinging to the neat lines of muscle that had come from years of late-night gym sessions and restless energy. Next to him, Changbin looked like he’d been carved out of something denser, all compact power and thick arms, his biceps stretching the fabric every time he rolled them. Jisung, on Chan’s other side, was lean and sharp, wiry definition in his forearms and calves that made every movement look like it had been sketched in clean strokes.
And then there was him.
Seungmin’s reflection arrived a second too late, slipping into the corner of the glass like an afterthought.
The same black tank top he’d worn a hundred times clung to his frame in a way that wasn’t bad, exactly—he knew that. His shoulders had definition, his collarbones sat neatly under his skin, his arms weren’t as thin as they used to be. He could lift, he could run, he could dance for hours without collapsing.
He knew that.
But in the lineup, all four of them spread across the mirror in the practice room, he looked like the half-finished sketch between three completed drawings.
“Okay, let’s try it from the pre-chorus again,” Chan said, snapping his fingers to get everyone’s attention.
The track started, heavy bass spilling from the speakers.
Feet shuffled into position.
Seungmin shook his arms out, rolled his shoulders once, and locked eyes with his own reflection—the fourth in the row, a fraction narrower, a fraction lighter.
He exhaled and moved.
The choreography didn’t give him time to think.
That was what he liked about it. Steps, turns, hits, the timing of each move burning into his muscles with repetition.
When he danced, his body stopped being a shape to compare and became something that just existed to execute: jump here, land there, arm up, arm down.
Perfectly functional. Reliable.
It was only in the pauses that the comparisons crept back in.
“Five-minute break,” Chan called after they ran the sequence twice more. “Hydrate before you actually die.”
Changbin grabbed his water bottle and dropped to the floor with a groan, sprawling on his back as if he’d been shot. Jisung immediately stretched an arm across his stomach like he was claiming the spot.
“Get off, you furnace,” Changbin complained, half-heartedly shoving at him.
“You’re the one radiating heat,” Jisung shot back, fanning himself with his shirt. “Some of us have normal body temperatures.”
Seungmin snorted and wandered over to the corner where he’d left his phone. His tank top clung cool and damp to his skin, sweat still trickling down his spine. He tugged it away from his chest, feeling the fabric stick and peel like a second skin.
He shouldn’t check his phone.
He knew he shouldn’t.
If he opened it, there would be notifications—clips, screenshots, comments. They were mid-promotion, which meant every angle of their bodies had been paused, zoomed, dissected a thousand times over. It was just noise, their manager kept saying. White noise.
Seungmin picked up the phone anyway.
The screen lit up with a flood of mentions. He didn’t tap any of them. That would be stupid.
Instead, he opened the group tag out of habit and let his thumb flick idly, eyes skimming over fancams and stills without really settling on any one thing.
A short video caught his attention—a behind-the-scenes clip someone had grabbed of them joking around in the waiting room. All of them in sleeveless outfits, loose black tanks and cut-off tees. Chan leaning against the wall, Changbin doing bicep curls with a water bottle for laughs, Jisung flexing dramatically behind them.
And him, in the corner of the frame, laughing at something off-camera, tank top hanging slightly off one shoulder.
He tapped into the comments before he could stop himself.
Some were harmless. Most were harmless. People asking where his earrings were from, saying his smile was cute, complaining about how short the clip was.
Then his eyes snagged on a cluster of replies under a screenshot where he was mid-laugh, shoulders bare, collarbones catching the light.
The funny thing was that none of it was new.
He’d seen variations of the same comments for years.
Early on, it had almost been amusing—him, the one people thought needed to be “fed,” when he was the one scolding the others about skipping meals. Lately, though, they’d started landing differently. Not quite like a punch, not quite like a joke. More like a pebble that kept dropping into the same spot in his chest, ripples spreading every time he saw himself next to them.
“Something good?”
Chan’s voice came from just over his shoulder, too close for him to hide the screen in time. Seungmin reflexively tilted his phone away anyway, thumb swiping up to minimize the app.
“Just fans,” he said, letting an easy grin slip into place. “Apparently my arms look like they’ll snap if I wave too hard in a tank top.”
He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.
Chan blinked, then leaned in a little, squinting like he could still read the comments off Seungmin’s face.
“Who said that?” he asked.
“Relax,” Seungmin laughed, locking his phone and tossing it back onto his bag. “No one important. You know how it is. People get dramatic when they see bones.”
He hooked a finger under the edge of his tank and pulled it away from his chest again, glancing down at himself with an exaggerated sigh.
“Maybe I should start borrowing Bin-hyung’s protein powder,” he added lightly. “Before my skeleton files a complaint.”
Chan’s gaze didn’t leave his face.
Seungmin could feel it, heavy and assessing in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. He pulled a crooked smile anyway, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. If he treated it like a joke, it would stay a joke. That was the rule.
“Come here,” Chan said suddenly.
“Why?” Seungmin narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
“Just—” Chan reached out, caught his wrist, and tugged him closer until they were both in front of the mirror.
"Look.”
Seungmin huffed but didn’t pull away.
Their reflections lined up side by side: Chan’s solid frame, his own slimmer one. The difference was obvious. It always was.
“What am I looking at, exactly?” Seungmin asked. “Exhibit A and Exhibit B?”
“Exhibit ‘You have arms and they are not about to snap,’” Chan said flatly.
He lifted Seungmin’s arm a little, fingers circling his forearm, thumb pressing into muscle that moved under his skin.
“These aren’t bones, they’re premium-grade drumsticks,” Chan declared.
“Yeah, for a baby chicken,” Seungmin shot back automatically, tugging his arm free. “Relax, hyung. I’m not having an existential crisis over my radius and ulna.”
Chan didn’t look entirely convinced. His eyes flicked from Seungmin’s reflection back to the bag where the phone sat, then to the faint tightness around Seungmin’s mouth.
But he let it go, for now.
“Break’s over,” he called instead, clapping his hands to get everyone moving again. “From the top!”
As the music started up, Seungmin slid back into position. He didn’t think about the comments. Not really. He thought about counts, about staying on the right beat, about where his body was supposed to be.
Still, when they hit the chorus and their arms shot up in unison, he couldn’t help noticing how much thicker Chan’s looked next to his in the mirror. How solid Changbin’s were. How Jisung’s lines cut clean through the air.
His own looked fine.
Fine, and a little too narrow.
He pushed the thought down and focused on the next step.
By the time practice ended an hour later, his shirt clung to him, hair damp against his forehead. His lungs burned in a familiar, satisfying way. His legs felt heavy but steady. This, he thought, as he bent over to catch his breath, was proof enough that his body worked. He was not fragile. He was not about to snap.
And yet, when he straightened up and caught sight of himself between the other three again, the old thought slotted into place before he could stop it: I look like someone forgot to finish drawing me.
He rolled his shoulders back, ignored the whisper, and told himself it would be different once he fixed a few things.
After all, he was healthy. He knew that.
He just wanted to look a little less like "before" and a little more like he belonged in the same frame.
If a few extra reps could get him there, what was the harm?
The shower should have rinsed it out of his head.
Hot water, steam curling around his shoulders, the sound of it hitting tile loud enough to drown out everything else—most days, that was enough to blur the edges of whatever nonsense had gotten under his skin.
Today, though, the words clung tighter than the sweat had.
He’s so skinny it makes me nervous…
His bones look like they’ll poke through…
Next to the other three he looks like a trainee who snuck into the lineup…
Seungmin wiped a hand down his face and turned the tap off with a sharper twist than necessary. The water cut out, leaving only the rush in his ears and the faint echo of voices from the hallway—Changbin laughing too loudly at something, Jisung half-whining, Hyunjin putting on some kind of over-the-top voice for no reason at all.
He towelled off quickly and pulled his clothes back on, pausing for a second as he dragged his shirt over his head. For just a heartbeat, he considered reaching for the loose hoodie in his bag instead.
Then he remembered tomorrow’s schedule: another practice, a mini-filming segment, and wardrobe fittings. Sleeveless again, probably. There was no point hiding under a hoodie now if he was going to be stripped back down to tank tops under studio lights later.
He let the thought go and shrugged into his shirt, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hallway.
Chan was leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone, hair still damp and curling a little at the ends.
A few meters down, Hyunjin was using the front camera of his own phone as a mirror, aggressively patting at his bangs.
"If anyone sees this footage, tell them I don’t approve," Hyunjin muttered, adjusting one stubborn strand. "My hair has rights."
"Your hair has issues," Minho said as he walked past, towel slung around his neck. He gave Seungmin a brief once-over, taking in the damp shirt, the slight flush in his cheeks.
"You survived. Good. Don’t let them bully you into another take, come straight home." Then he drifted off toward the lockers like he hadn’t just casually mom-checked him.
Chan looked up as soon as the door clicked shut behind Seungmin.
"You good?" he asked.
"You waited for me?" Seungmin raised a brow. "Wow. I feel honoured."
"Don’t get used to it," Chan said, straightening and slipping his phone into his pocket. "Bin and Sung went to raid the snacks downstairs. Hyunjin is apparently at war with his own fringe. Someone had to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped by a vending machine or him."
"My tragic end," Seungmin agreed dryly. "Death by potato chips and hairspray. Put that on my tombstone."
Hyunjin, still fussing with his reflection, glanced over.
"If you die, can I have that black jacket you wore last week? It fits me better than you anyway."
"Wow," Seungmin said. "I love the confidence."
"I’m serious," Hyunjin replied. "Don’t bulk up too much or I’ll sue. Then it won’t hang right on me." He went back to fixing his bangs, completely unaware of the way the words snagged in Seungmin’s chest.
It was meant as a joke. It landed like one. Seungmin forced a small smile and shrugged.
"I’ll keep my lawsuit potential in mind," he said.
Chan’s eyes flicked between them, quietly filing that away.
They started down the corridor together. The building was quieter at this hour, most staff already gone, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floor.
For a few minutes, they just walked. Practice exhaustion settled over Seungmin’s shoulders like another layer of clothing, heavy but familiar. His muscles throbbed in a way that promised he’d ache tomorrow, but it was a clean ache, the good kind. The kind he trusted.
He trusted his stamina. He trusted his lungs. He trusted his legs to carry him through four, five, six runs of choreography without buckling.
It was what other people trusted when they looked at him that he couldn’t quite pin down.
"You know," Chan said eventually, "for someone who thinks his arms are about to snap, you survived today just fine."
Seungmin groaned. "You’re still on that?"
"I’m very attached to my premium-grade drumsticks analogy," Chan replied. "Don’t disrespect my best work."
"That was your best work?"
"I’m tired, Seungmin. My standards are low."
The banter came easily, the back-and-forth rhythm as rehearsed as any choreography. It let Seungmin relax, a little. If Chan was joking, then he hadn’t taken it that seriously. If he hadn’t taken it that seriously, then maybe Seungmin could pretend he hadn’t either.
They reached the stairwell. Chan pushed the door open and held it for him.
"You know they’re going to make us wear those tanks again tomorrow," Seungmin said as they started down.
"The stylist noonas looked way too happy about how ‘cohesive’ we looked." He made air quotes with one hand, the other skimming the rail.
"We do look cohesive," Chan argued. "In a very sweaty, almost-dying sort of way."
"You three look like a fitness ad," Seungmin muttered. "I look like the ‘before’ picture they forgot to retouch."
It slipped out softer than he meant, the words bouncing off the stairwell walls before he could catch them.
Chan stopped mid-step.
Seungmin, already one stair below, realized too late and kept going, only noticing when the air between them stretched thin. He turned back, one hand still on the rail.
"What?" he asked, even though he knew exactly what.
Chan was watching him, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. Not angry, not upset. Just… focused, like he was trying to line up puzzle pieces that had been scattered around for a while.
"You say that a lot," Chan said finally. "The ‘before picture’ thing."
Seungmin forced a shrug. "It’s a joke."
"Is it?" Chan’s voice wasn’t accusing, just curious. Too curious.
Seungmin grimaced. "If I say yes, will you drop it?"
"No."
"Then I’m not answering."
Chan’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t press. Not here, not now. He started walking again, and Seungmin turned back around, the conversation hanging between them like a loose thread.
They pushed through the stairwell door at the ground floor and were immediately hit with the faint smell of something fried drifting from the snack area. Changbin’s laughter echoed down the hallway, punctuated by Jisung’s offended squawking and Felix’s bright, low chuckle.
"I told you not to leave him alone with the chips," Chan said.
"Pretty sure you did that on purpose," Seungmin replied.
When they rounded the corner, his suspicion was confirmed. Changbin was sitting at a small table, a bag of chips open in front of him, Jisung practically crawling across the surface in an attempt to reach it while Changbin held it out of range.
Felix sat on the other side, chin propped on one hand, watching the chaos like it was a nature documentary.
"You can’t have all of it!" Jisung protested. "Sharing is caring!"
"I care about me," Changbin said calmly, popping another chip into his mouth.
"You said you were cutting back on snacks," Chan pointed out, dropping his bag on the empty chair beside him.
"This is my cheat day," Changbin said.
"You said yesterday was your cheat day," Jisung argued.
"Every day is my cheat day if I believe in myself," Changbin replied.
"Honestly?" Felix murmured, "kind of inspirational."
Seungmin slid into the remaining chair, letting the familiar chaos wash over him. The air was warm, the lighting a little too bright, the table slightly sticky from whatever tragedy had happened there earlier. It was mundane and grounding in a way that practice and cameras never quite managed.
"Min, save me," Jisung pleaded, reaching dramatically toward him. "He’s hoarding all the good flavours."
"I’m not getting between you and Bin’s snack agenda," Seungmin said. "I value my life."
"You value your bones," Changbin corrected.
"And they need sodium. Here." He shoved the bag toward Seungmin instead, ignoring Jisung’s outraged gasp.
Felix’s eyes softened a little. "You really killed it in the bridge today," he said.
"Those lines looked insane on camera. The stylist kept rewinding your part." He said it like he was reporting the weather.
"See?" Jisung sulked. "Even fate wants me to starve."
"You ate two full meals before practice," Seungmin reminded him, trying not to get stuck on your part and kept rewinding. "You’re not starving."
"My soul is starving."
"Your soul needs less sodium," Minho said as he appeared, dropping a bottle of water in front of Seungmin like a silent command.
"And so do you. Eat, drink, stretch when you get home." He nudged the chips closer to Seungmin again, then snagged one for himself. "Also, you don’t look like a ‘before’ picture. You look like contrast. It’s on purpose."
He said it and moved on, already turning toward the fridge.
Contrast.
Seungmin took a chip because anything else would be weirder and popped it into his mouth. It was salty and crisp and tasted like absolutely nothing important.
"See?" Jisung said, pointing accusingly. "Even Min’s on his side."
"I’m on the side of peace and quiet," Seungmin replied. "If feeding Bin shuts you up, I’ll support it."
The banter wound around them easily, lifting the mood back into something light.
Chan threw in the occasional comment, but his eyes kept flicking back to Seungmin whenever he thought no one was looking—tracking how much he ate, how often he grimaced at his own jokes about being small, the way his shoulders pulled in slightly every time someone mentioned size.
On another day, Seungmin might not have noticed.
Tonight, under the residual sting of the comments and the awareness of Chan’s earlier scrutiny, he felt every glance like a spotlight.
He reached for another chip just to prove a point to himself and to no one at all.
"I’m fine, you know," he said suddenly, not entirely sure who he was addressing until he realized all of them had gone quiet and were looking at him.
Great. Perfect.
"Okay," Jisung said slowly, "no one said you weren’t? Did the chips insult you? Because that’s my job."
Jeongin, who had wandered in halfway through the conversation and was now leaning against the fridge with a yogurt, snorted.
"If anyone here is ‘trainee who snuck into the lineup,’ it’s me," he said.
"You’re the one scolding everyone like a manager." He peeled back the lid and took a bite. "Internet people are blind."
Seungmin cleared his throat and waved a hand. "No, I just—" he hesitated, then forced a smaller smile.
"I’m just saying, if anyone was worried about me snapping in half during choreo, relax. I’m not that breakable."
Silence stretched for half a beat too long.
Chan was the one who filled it.
"No one here thinks you’re breakable," he said quietly. "You survived living with us. That’s proof enough."
Changbin snorted. "Yeah, if anything we’re the fragile ones. Have you heard the way he yells when we’re late?"
"That’s vocal strength," Jisung argued. "He needs it for the high notes."
"And for yelling at you," Hyunjin added as he finally wandered in, hair now apparently acceptable.
The moment scattered, as it always did, turned into laughter and mock complaints. But the thing was out there now, hovering just above the table: the idea that someone, somewhere—enough someones—saw him as something that might snap.
He chased it away with another chip and another joke, but it lingered in the back of his mind, stubborn.
The gym was quieter than the practice room, but it wasn’t exactly peaceful.
Metal clanked as weights were racked and unracked. Someone’s playlist hummed low from a speaker on the window ledge, bass pulsing under the steady thud of feet on rubber flooring. The air smelled like disinfectant and sweat and the faint citrus of whatever body spray Jisung had overused that afternoon.
"That’s it for me," Changbin announced, re-racking the bar with a grunt. He rolled his shoulders as if they weren’t already impossibly broad. "If I do one more set, my arms will seize."
On the mat nearby, Jisung flopped onto his back like a dying fish.
"My soul seceded thirty minutes ago," he said. "You just didn’t notice."
Felix, jogging at an easy pace on the treadmill, slowed it to a walk.
"You both still have legs," he pointed out. "Complain again when those stop working."
In the corner, Jeongin was half-heartedly doing crunches, counting out loud and losing track every third number.
Seungmin tightened his grip on the dumbbells in his hands and lifted again.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
His biceps burned, skin stretched tight over muscle that trembled just enough to let him know he was close to the edge. He hit twelve reps, the number he usually stopped at, and kept going. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. The ache in his arms sharpened, tipping from satisfying to slightly reckless.
"You’re overachieving again," Jeongin called, pausing mid-crunch to squint in his direction. "You trying to replace Bin-hyung or something?"
"Don’t threaten me like that," Changbin said, grabbing his water bottle. "One of me is enough."
"Tragically," Jisung added, throwing an arm over his eyes.
Seungmin didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched too tightly around his breath, exhale hissing between his teeth as he forced out one more rep. The numbers in his head didn’t sound like one, two, three; they sounded like comments.
Too skinny.
Bones.
Trainee in the lineup.
He wasn’t doing this because he believed them. Not exactly.
He knew he was healthy. His last check-up had been fine. His stamina during practice was fine. He ate enough, slept enough, took care of himself as much as the schedule would let him.
He just also knew what he looked like standing between the others when the camera cut wide.
"That’s your fourth set," Chan said from somewhere behind him. "You usually do three."
Seungmin didn’t look over. He fixed his eyes on the empty space in front of him and lifted again. "Do I?" he said, breath coming short. "You do five. I’m just catching up."
"Catching up to what, exactly?" Chan’s footsteps came closer, the reflection of his figure appearing in the corner of the mirror. "My terrible life choices? You don’t want these."
"To not look like I’ll blow away in a strong breeze," Seungmin muttered. He grit his teeth and pushed through another rep, ignoring the sharp protest in his shoulders.
"Relax, I’m fine."
"You are fine," Changbin said, already half-checked out as he chugged water. "You danced circles around us today. I was the one dying in the corner, remember?"
"That’s because you ate three bags of chips before practice," Jisung mumbled from the mat.
Changbin glanced at the clock on the wall. "I’m showering before my legs go on strike," he declared. He grabbed his towel and pointed at Seungmin.
"If you pass out, aim away from the equipment. Those things are expensive."
Felix hopped off the treadmill, grabbing his hoodie from the back of a chair. As he passed, he clapped a warm hand to Seungmin’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the weights.
"Don’t let him bully you into his routine," he told Chan with a small grin.
Then, to Seungmin, "Your lines are already insane, Min. Don’t wreck them."
"I’ll try not to be wrecked," Seungmin said, breath light and joking. The dumbbells shook a little in his hands.
One by one, they trickled out. Changbin disappeared toward the showers. Felix and Jisung drifted into the hallway, their voices fading into muffled complaints and laughter. Jeongin followed with his phone in hand, earbuds already in, offering a lazy salute on his way out.
The gym door swung shut with a soft click.
The sudden quiet slipped into the spaces they’d left behind.
Chan hooked a foot around the edge of the bench and dragged it back a little.
"Okay," he said.
"Pause."
Seungmin pretended he hadn’t heard, forcing the weights up again. His arms screamed at him. His pride was louder.
"Min," Chan said, softer but with a thread of authority that had nothing to do with their leader-maknae labels and everything to do with how long they’d known each other.
"Put the weights down for a second."
"You sound like my PT," Seungmin muttered. But he lowered the dumbbells anyway, placing them on the floor with more care than he felt. His forearms buzzed, skin hot and tight, palms slick against the knurled metal as he let go.
"What?" he said, reaching for the towel beside him. "I’m not bleeding. That’s a good sign."
Chan folded his arms across his chest. "You already did your usual workout," he said.
"Then you added two extra sets."
"Then you added more weight."
Seungmin scrubbed the towel over his face, buying himself a moment.
"Congratulations, you can count," he said lightly.
"I can also see your form going," Chan replied. "Who are you doing this for?"
The question landed heavier than any weight Seungmin had picked up that night.
He froze, towel halfway down his neck, and frowned. "What?"
"The extra sets," Chan clarified.
"The heavier weights. The ‘before picture’ comments. Who are you trying to convince you’re not breakable? Us? Fans? Yourself?"
Seungmin laughed, the sound a little too quick, a little too bright. "Wow, deep analysis. Thank you, Dr. Bang. Maybe I just want nicer arms. Is that a crime?"
"Wanting nicer arms isn’t a crime," Chan said. "Killing them in one night might be, though."
Seungmin tossed the towel onto the bench and finally looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror first—Chan’s brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a line that wasn’t quite a frown, wasn’t quite neutral. The kind of look he wore when he was trying to decide how hard to push.
"I told you, I’m fine," Seungmin said, voice flattening around the word. "I’m healthy. The doctors say so, the trainers say so, you say so. I get it."
He exhaled through his nose, fingers curling around the edge of the bench.
"But when every time I wear something revealing, people act like they’re watching a horror movie, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look a little less…" He waved a hand at his reflection, the gesture small and vague.
"Like this."
Chan’s gaze didn’t leave his.
"So you’re doing this," he said slowly, "so strangers on the internet will stop being dramatic?"
Seungmin’s mouth twisted. "If it makes them shut up and makes styling happier and makes me look less like I snuck into your lineup by accident… I mean, why not?" he said. "It’s not like working out is bad for me."
He forced a smile, lopsided. "Win-win, right?"
"That’s not a win-win," Chan said. "That’s you trying to be a custom order for people who don’t even know you."
"I’m just trying not to be the one who looks wrong in the group picture, hyung," Seungmin murmured. "That’s all."
Chan blew out a slow breath and took a step forward until he was standing beside him, both of them facing the mirror now. Their reflections lined up again: Chan, solid and broad; Seungmin, narrower, tank top clinging to sweat-damp skin.
"You don’t look wrong," Chan said. "You look like you."
"Wow," Seungmin said softly. "Very helpful. Thank you."
"I’m serious." Chan lifted his hand, not quite touching, tracing the air along the slope of Seungmin’s shoulder, the line of his arm.
"You know how many choreographers we’ve had who ask to adjust formations because your lines hit better? They keep putting you in the center for a reason."
Seungmin swallowed. His throat felt tight. "That’s because of the moves, not my body."
"What do you think is doing the moves?" Chan asked. "Your ghost?"
That pulled a reluctant huff of laughter out of him. It faded quickly.
Chan dropped his hand, letting it fall limply to his side. "I hate that you talk about yourself like you’re some half-finished sketch," he said, voice low.
"Hyunjin literally steals your clothes because they fit him better. Stylists rewind your parts. The others stare at you all the time, by the way. You know that, right?"
"That’s because they’re weird," Seungmin muttered.
"No," Chan countered.
"It’s because they like what they’re looking at."
He held Seungmin’s gaze in the mirror, steady and unflinching.
"We like what we’re looking at. Now. Not when you add five kilos to your curls because someone online thinks your bones are too visible."
Silence settled, thicker this time. The gym’s hum faded to the background—air conditioning, the distant rattle of a door somewhere down the hall, the ghost of the bassline still leaking from the forgotten speaker.
"Listen," Chan said eventually.
"If you want to get stronger because you want it, I’ll help you. I’ll make you a routine, I’ll spot you, I’ll complain with you when everything hurts."
He turned away from the mirror to face Seungmin directly.
"But if you’re doing this to remodel yourself into what a comment section thinks you should look like, I’m not just going to stand here and watch."
Seungmin stared down at his hands.
There was a faint, angry red line across his palm where the dumbbell grip had dug into the skin. He pressed his thumb against it until the sting dulled.
"You can’t control what I read," he said quietly. "Or what gets stuck."
"No," Chan agreed.
"I can’t."
He nudged one of the dumbbells with the side of his foot, sending it rolling a few centimetres before it rocked back into place.
"But I can control whether I pretend I don’t see you trying to fix a problem that isn’t there."
He toed the weight again, gentler.
"One more set," he said. "At a weight that doesn’t wreck your form. Then we go home. And tomorrow, we talk to the trainer and set something up that’s actually for you. Deal?"
Seungmin squinted at him. "You’re bossy, you know that?"
"You joined a group called Stray Kids under me," Chan said. "Informed consent."
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, Seungmin let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh and nodded once. "…Fine. One more normal set. Then I’m done."
"Good," Chan said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And if I catch you sneaking in here at three a.m. because someone tweeted about your elbows, I’m changing the Wi‑Fi password."
"That’s abuse," Seungmin muttered, but there was a real smile this time, crooked and reluctant. "You know that, right?"
"Sue me," Chan replied, stepping back to give him space. "Hyunjin’s already in line."
Seungmin shook his head and reached for the dumbbells again, this time setting them to a lower weight. The metal felt heavy, but not crushing, as he curled them up, careful with his form. Chan hovered just off to the side, close enough that Seungmin could feel the safety net without being smothered by it.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
The burn was still there, but it felt cleaner now, stripped of urgency. Less like he was trying to outrun a comment thread and more like he was simply… using his body. Testing it. Trusting it.
When he hit twelve, he stopped.
"Done," he said quietly.
"Good," Chan echoed. "Let’s go home."
As they left the gym together, the weights sat where they’d been left on the floor—unchanged, cold, indifferent. Outside, though, the air felt a fraction lighter, like someone had opened a window he hadn’t noticed was closed.
It wasn’t a fix. Not yet.
user4819
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2 hours ago
He’s so skinny it makes me nervous when he wears sleeveless :/
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user1472
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1 hour ago
His bones look like they’ll poke through the shirt omg
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user9819
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58 minutes ago
Next to the other three he looks like a trainee who snuck into the lineup lol
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user7131
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32 minutes ago
Feed him please 😭
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